Missteps
by Villemoo
Summary: One wrong step can take you in the right direction. A tale of Max encountering more than just his usual insanity at the desert... The story was written for @Ihaveauseforyou, who won it for 2018 Fandom Trumps Hate auction. It took a long while, and I hope it's worth the wait. In four chapters, if anyone's wondering.
1. Chapter 1, Peril at Night

**This story was written for Ivaeauseforyou of Tumblr and AO3 fame, who won it for the 2018 Fandom Trumps Hate Auction.**

 **It took a long while, and I hope it's worth the wait. I was working on this since January this year. Man, that took a long while. And it's still unfinished! ;)**

 **Don't worry, I'll only have to get the last chapter online - it will be here soon.**

 **But, first things first. I hope you enjoy this little voyage into the sweltering heat of post-apocalyptic wasteland. Together with Mad Max, let yourself get lost into the insanity of the desert.**

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 **MISSTEPS**

oOo

 _PART ONE:_

 _PERIL AT NIGHT_

oOo

Life is cheap in the wastelands.

There are things that kill you with their absence. Water. Shelter. Food.

There are also things that can take your life because of the sheer abundance of them, a gluttonous surplus, pointless and unproductive. Heat. Speed. Stupidity.

My own stupidity has threatened to kill me countless times. At first, I fought it tooth and nail, then I welcomed it, but now it's been my companion for longer than I care to remember. It's like a cup of coffee in the morning, waking me up with an adrenaline rush of realization. A last-second stop over a chasm, final gulp of water from the canteen, not-too-distant roar of an unfamiliar engine behind me.

Funny, how its so familiar now that I act on pure instinct; duck and cover, freeze and observe.

The well I passed two days ago is right before my eyes. An indent in the ground on the precipice of a rock formation that used to have a name, once. In times, when people used to go here to experience a break from their comfortable lives. Now it's just another eroded hulk, an oversized road-sign, telling everyone to keep away. Better to get around it, not over. What kind of idiot would try to go over, right?

Someone once or twice called me a fool. I never argued. Too true.

Yeah, so I failed the simple task of crossing over the mountain, which brought me back almost to the bottom of it, and then I thought, stupid, stupid, stupid, that the well I passed on my way will be as accessible now as it was two days ago.

Did I mention how stupid I am?

There are two cars there; some kind of abomination that used to be a jeep, and a sleek monster with a corvette-like body and then a bike, much like mine. As I watch they stop just before the well and start to lay down the camp. My lips mumble a litany of 'fucks', but it's no use. It never changes anything, anyway. All I can do now is observe as the group cosies by my water, cutting off my lifeline.

I know there is no other water source nearby. I just drank the last of my supply. If they won't move, I'll be doomed.

As I mentioned, I'm stupid.

Fuck.

oOo

Morning dew is always a life-saver.

My eyes hurt from watching the camp until wee hours, trying to get as much information as possible. Patterns, characters, resources. So far it's nothing too extravagant, and I wonder if I wouldn't be better off sneaking in there while they sleep.

For now, I relish the ghost of moisture on my skin and think about anything but my present situation.

I can't remember the last time I took a shower. For sure, I have been cleaned, sometimes. Hosed down or gently sponge-bathed, rarely anything in between the two. But the last time there was an abundance of water, so much that I could submerge myself in it, or stand under the spray? Or use soap? Scented shampoo?

It used to be so normal, so natural. Not even a blink of awareness went with gallons of liquid poured down the drain. A lifetime ago.

The purr of the bike has me looking out at the camp again. They laugh, and for the first time among the baritone of male voices, I can hear a faint squeal or a scream.

Someone young.

Or a woman?

Sure enough, a lithe figure dashes toward the bike, followed by an angry shout and a bark of command. She's overpowered in an instant, drag back to the shabby tent.

I can hear her yelling. Trapped animal, angry more than terrified, angry at her helplessness.

The man on the bike is laughing revving the engine and goes away leaving only mocking echo of his voice and a cloud of dust.

Two other get into one of the cars and follow.

All that's left is a pair in a tent with a woman. She should keep them busy for a little while.

The opportunity is too sweet to pass.

So, the idiot that I am, of course, I'm going down the slope, trying to scale the rocks as stealthily as possible. The closer I get the better I see the camp, and the louder the screams are.

"What kind of moron taints the thing he wants to sell? Don't you think they'll see the marks? You'll drive the price down by more than half, only to wet your dick for a second!"

Feisty little thing. If she lives through the ordeal, she'll be back on those guys with a revenge like fire and fury. I know the strain in her voice; it's not fear. It's gulped down desire. She already relishes how she'd like to punish them. Too eager to get the upper hand.

Foolish, but understandable.

I listen to her ramble on about the money and the stupidity of the men who would spoil a prime-quality bloodbag, and I desperately try not to focus on her voice. Why won't they just gag her?

But then, as I carefully fill the canteen, the woman's voice stops abruptly, cut off mid-sentence. Muffled shrieks are all that follow, or perhaps it's only my imagination. Maybe it's another flashback.

I mumble to myself, trying to convince the ghosts beside me that what I'm thinking about is moronic, to say the least. Also, unpractical. Very dangerous. Sprog never understands. I have to be wiser than a child. But I know how a person feels when they're seen only as a commodity. Only as a source of blood, or meat.

The liquid is almost overflowing in my water bag, and I still idle by the well. I should be running back to my bike, and getting the hell away from here. The sun will be up in no time, and I should be on my merry way nowhere.

The decision is made for me.

"Stupid cunt," one of the man shouts, and then there's a flurry of movement. A pale figure leaps from the tent and dashes towards me, stopping after a few long strides.

I'm caught surprised, awkwardly crouched, almost as if my pants were around my ankles. Which is funny, seeing how the woman, stark naked in contrast to me, is proudly standing with her spine ramrod straight. She casts me a quick measuring look, processing the fact that I'm not one of her captors in a blink of an eye.

I'm still frozen when one of the men comes after her.

Her skin is white, abnormally so given the world we live in, and an unruly mane of dark hair is spilling down her shoulders and back. The sight is something I've seen before. It's something I want to forget, and at the same time, I longed to see it again.

And here she is, a negative of a memory, blurring the reality.

Jesse.

The man lunges and grabs her hair, and she tries desperately to get free, to wrestle him away. Thin arms frantically punch, but to no avail. His knee is effortlessly and efficiently aimed right at her sternum, while he keeps her palm with a shank away with his free hand.

She crumples onto the ground after the blow.

A lifeless lump that used to be a person.

Jesse.

I'm moving out of pure reflex and muscle memory now. It's not like I'm not aware of what I'm doing, no, I know exactly that my fist will connect with the man's face, and that my other hand will cut into his flank, deep into the soft, unguarded tissue. I hear him screaming and cursing, and I muffle the noise with a well-timed jab at his throat. Gurgling is wet and strained. Faint.

His corpse falls down limply on the ruddy desert sand and I'm perfectly aware that I just killed a man. Somehow, it doesn't register as an offence anymore.

The woman whimpers and my rage is gone in an instant, replaced by a muscle tightening horror. My head snaps to look at her, and I'm ready for another fight. I really thought she was dead.

Before I have a chance to get closer I see her hand gripping the handle of a gun on her assailants' belt.

"Wait," I rasp out. My voice is harsh from lack of use, the only thing I'm using it now being mutters and whispers to placate my demons. "I'm not going to hurt you."

A wet gurgle sounds somewhere behind her and she moves her head to watch the other man crawling out of the tent. I use that to kneel by her and grab the weapon. Not taking any chances.

Meanwhile, the man retches blood one last time and falls flat on his face. Apparently, that fucker took his time dying. With the last spasm, he aims something that looks like a cartoonish revolver straight at the skies.

I'm immobilized holding down the woman's hand and can only start my litany of 'oh shits' to accompany the brilliant path of the flare up towards the stars. It explodes over us with a perfect bang, marking the stagnant air with a vivid yellow cloud of dust and a blinding flash of light.

The woman trashes besides me and I move away, taking the weapon and giving her ample space. She gets up and looks at me, holding her stomach with an ugly frown barely visible from behind her hair.

Jesse had the same kind of a wild bush on her head. She used to complain so much about it until I told her how I loved it. The curls were like living things, always shifting and moving about, looking coarse but in reality soft to the touch like a kittens fur…

"They'll be back soon."

Her warning snaps me out of the flashback and I nod.

With an unspoken agreement, we gather everything that can be used as a weapon, keeping a keen eye on each other. She hides in the tent and I follow to watch her dress, making sure she didn't sneak any gun by me. She tries to do just that, of course. A growl and a warning glance are sufficient to alert her that I'm there, and she sends me a spiteful snarl. But the gun is laid beside her, in my plain view.

The skin on my back crawls with unease as I watch her yank on clothes, a mismatched set of whatever is available or can be quickly torn off a corpse. She looks just as queasy with the prospect of trusting me with her safety, as I do with staying by her, but neither of us has the luxury of a choice. I motion for her to follow, a quick snap of my wrist towards the hills, and she hesitantly climbs after me to my perch over the camp.

The men don't make us wait too long after all the mayhem with the woman took only minutes. The bike is the first to be back, sneaking in from the flank, headlight turned off. The sun is rising, and everything beyond us is shrouded in the last remnants of the night. Jeep is coming from the other side, revving loudly and with the crew yelling obscenities.

Idiots.

While she glances down, I make use of the distraction to gag and bind her.

oOo

The camp is emptied of life in short two minutes. All it takes is a little patience. The thugs roll in, discover their friends, and by the time they disperse to look for clues or hide in a tent I have two of them down. The one that's left chooses the worst spot to hide, at the back of a car. A hole in the door is no loss. He should've got behind the engine, or the tank.

I get the first unhurried pick of the spoils. The clutter of ammo and foodstuffs is easy to navigate. Some useful trinkets, ropes, rags… But then, the cars. The Interceptor was one of a kind. Now, that I'm used to the Reaver, his agility and mobility, I still miss the speed of a good V8. The roof and windshields, during storms. None of the pieces of crap here could compare. The comparison is not exactly what I'm going for, especially since it's the bike that I have to make do with.

Do I want to be a bigger target?

These past weeks and months had been calm, more than ever. It's easier to hide a bike, than a car. Less fuel is needed. It's not as valuable, like a house on wheels that a good car could be.

I won't be too greedy. Just want my peace and quiet.

Less and less things remind me of my past. The jacket went first, piece by piece. The Interceptor blown up, another one disintegrated by lowlife thugs, deep in the caverns of Furiosa's stronghold. Numerous trinkets I lost over the years, some without even realizing.

The only things I've left now is the harness and the pain.

The supplies I picked are enough to last me for long while. All in all, I'm done packing them in half an hour.

After I strap everything to the Reaver I get back up on the hill. The woman is panting through the gag, frowning up at me. It's weird, her eyes are almost shining in the dim light of the night.

I throw her a knife and part ways without a word. If she won't figure out how to get out of the binds, she won't be able to survive the wasteland anyway.

oOo

I used to like trees. The sweet and heady smell of pines hanging heavily in the salty air, as they sweated resin into the trembling air, was something I grew up with. There's nothing nearly as sweet in this world anymore.

Or so I thought.

The woman is maddening. She keeps far enough that we don't have to talk. But her silhouette is always in my peripheral. And wind sometimes brings a wisp of her scent. Despite the conditions - the dirt, the heat, the hopelessness - it's unexplainably sweet fragrance. Just like pine needles warmed up by the sun. There's an undertone that reminds me of the buzzing electricity in the air just before the storm.

Imagine that. A real storm, with water pouring down…

What would it take to lose her? The trailing is wearing on my nerves and I'm too exhausted by the ghosts haunting me, to have enough mental facilities for another person.

But then, so far she's more like a dog, in her silent and distant companionship. I don't have to talk to her. Only my demons.

Her schedule seemed erratic, but by now I've memorized her pattern. It's strange but sensible: she walks mostly, saving fuel just as I do. And she's moving during the night as much as possible. I wonder what she'll do once the Moon slims down.

Not my problem.

Somehow, she keeps up, for now.

oOo

I knew she would be trouble.

As soon as a shrub appeared behind one hill, I picked up the pace. It was getting dark, and I didn't want to be near a potential food source during the night - too much danger - but then, I wanted the grubs. There's gotta be grubs on a shrub.

Sure enough, it was Witchetty bush. A welcome surprise - I would have expected to see the first one way further East. But I'm not complaining. Far from it, I pick up my pace and survey the land before me in the fading sunlight. I thought the dunes would stretch further, but already the sand underneath my feet is coarser, rougher. There'll be some more ergs on my way, but this is a welcome distraction.

With how flat everything is I'm pretty sure the woman would catch up to me in two hours at most. If she rides the bike, that is. I saw her last morning, circling close, but not too near. Still, the distance is small enough that I'm anxious just remembering that someone else is this close.

And I helped her get a working gun.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So, do I stay here for the night - that is the question.

Turns out it's a no-contest - there were so many grubs in the dirt by the roots of the bush, that I ate my sweet share of them (mmm, almondy), and still had enough spare that I just had to roast them.

So I've set camp just by the wItchetty shrub, like a brainless fuck that I am. Rookie mistake. I'm so tired of the trailing though, I just want it to end - this way, or the other.

Would she kill me in my sleep, for the supplies and meat?

Quick night set above my head a while back when I was digging a pit for the fire. Scraps of wood and twigs from the bush are prepared beside it. I also made a hole to catch some water, and another one to relieve myself.

Now, all I have to do is to wait and see if my companion shows up.

Funny thing, I never thought a woman would trail me like a dog.

oOo

It's well past sunset when I hear the faint roar of the familiar engine.

To think, I call myself stupid - what is left to call her, then? Retarded? Moronic? Few stubbies short of a six-pack?

Fuck. I'd drink a beer. Even a bloody shandy would be a godsend in this wasteland. Anything cold. Or with ice. When was the last time I saw ice with my own eyes?

The bike revs closer and closer. Not going to stop? She is a little too far to the North, to get where I am.

Does she even try to get here?

Before I grasp the meaning of her idiotic action, she wheezes past me, like a brain-dead twerp, roaring on the bike in the dead of the night. In total fucking darkness.

What the actual fuck?!

Up until now, I had a shred of expectation that perhaps her fast pace was due to some devilishly intelligent plot. Perhaps she could be some intuitive genius of the wasteland, utilizing some secret knowledge I didn't yet possess.

But no. She was just undeniably stupid.

How disheartening.

I wait until the sound of the engine dies down and only then I light the fire. The pit shields the flames, and I have all the warmth to myself. In a minute I'll cook the grubs, and eat two or three more. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow.

I wonder, if I'll tread past the woman's lifeless body, or if the desert will bury her. She is too lucky anyway, to live through night riding in an unfamiliar terrain. Sooner or later she'd have to hit a bump.

For once, I fall asleep almost peacefully, with the bike behind my back, and the knowledge that no one trails close behind.

Sprog laughs as if the child could know something I don't.

oOo

I jerk awake, startling a lizard which perched on my chest. Good thing it wasn't a snake. Out of pure reflex, I grab the creatures neck and wring it with a flick of my thumb. That's breakfast.

Lucky me.

That toothless granny (what was her name?) chuckles with Sprog. Since when do those two keep together?

The camp is wiped in a minute, and after a leisurely leak, I ready to head my way.

Two minutes later I get why those fuckers were bawling at my shaggy head.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The woman turns out to be more intelligent than I gave her credit for. I stop at the tracks she left last night. Must have circled my camp - on foot. But nothing is missing, and I didn't wake up, or rather - I did wake up alive. So, what was she doing that for? Why waste time and energy?

Should I trail after her now?

As I turn to look the way the woman went, Sprogs angry face whips right into my field of vision. A flash of memory, stop! Stop! Stop those bloody cars! - in an instant reduces me to my knees, whimpering. I barely feel fingernails digging into my scalp, for once conscious of how long and tangled my hair has gotten.

I should get up and run from here, but I can't. The sand is still cool, as I weep futile and angry tears, looking straight into those icy blue eyes. Just like Jesse's.

Why does it still hurt after all those years? Why does it still feel so recent, so real, so fucking raw?

After I'm done gripping elusive fistfuls of sand in an attempt to calm myself I start on my way. The opposite of the woman's trail.

oOo


	2. Chapter 2, Common Pitfall of Conceit

**And another instalment of this slow-burn... Pun intended.**

 **Two more to go, so do not hesitate to leave your thoughts after reading!**

 **As always, you'll find review responses at the very bottom. :) And if you're interested in a version of this story with very captivating pictures - visit my Tumblr at ilovehighhats.**

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oOo

 _PART TWO:_

 _COMMON PITFALL OF CONCEIT_

oOo

For all the complaining I did, for all my snide remarks on the dangers of trekking through the desert under cover of the night, it is I who got his ass in a hole.

Right in the middle of a bright bloody day.

In my defence - the crevice was well concealed. One moment I stepped through loose rocks trying to find a path wide enough for the Reaver, and the next I was falling down an almost vertical wall of sandstone.

So, I'm in a ditch. Literally fucking trapped like a stupid animal.

For all the thoughts I wasted on the woman I never once suspected that I'd be the idiot who steps straight into a chasm. Like a sleepwalking baby.

I don't know, what was I thinking?!

My left arm is incapacitated - at best dislocated, at worst... No, I'm not even thinking about it. It's only disjointed. Nothing I can't fix. Pity that the bike is hanging right over my head. When I fell I didn't want to let it go, so that got my shoulder sprained and the machine locked just above me. One water tank broke too.

The most idiotic thing is, I can't even wiggle sideways. I'm like those deer, which got into a hole in the mountains - nowhere to move, only sing lower and lower into the chasm, until all that is left is a beautifully arranged cage of bleached bones.

Just my fucking luck. I could have died a thousand times over. I could have made it count. For someone. For something more significant than my sick, absent, filthy mind.

But no, I just had to make myself die the stupidest fucking way possible.

A misstep.

oOo

How long am I here?

I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. Funny thing, that. For once I can't seem to find Sprog. Did I leave the kid with Jesse in the shop? Or are we at Aunt May's?

No, I'm dizzy. I was just at the Citadel. Both Sprog and my wife are dead. All of my family is gone. Everything is destroyed.

I'm so alone…

Is it night already?

"Hey!"

I look up. There's the sky, midnight blue with a twinkling scar of Milky Way. The moon got so thin it barely gives any light, but I can see a dark blob hanging just ahead. Right, the bike.

"Hey, you fucker, are you dead?"

I don't know that voice. Better stay quiet.

It's so cold though. I can feel my teeth chatter, a distinct staccato of enamel hitting enamel fast like maracas in a tropical bar.

The voice gets muffled, and it sounds like I'll be left in peace. Good. I just want to sleep. Maybe then I'll get warm again. Maybe after I wake my head won't be hurting as if it split in two…

That'll be the day. A bright light hits my eyes, and I groan, too hurt to care; I just betrayed my position and condition to whoever is torturing me.

"Oh good, so you are alive after all. Wait there."

There's amusement in the voice. Stupid cunt.

Then I realise. It's the woman I rescued. She trailed behind me, then I thought she changed course, but she must have just beelined to my trail. And she found me without falling into a ditch like a moron herself. Even though she was the one riding the bike by night.

How fucking unfair is that?

But of course, nothing at all is fair in the wasteland. Not one goddamn thing.

oOo

I must have drifted away, because when I come to again - right fucking now - the only thing I feel is piercing, searing pain.

"Don't yell, you moron!" She hisses above me. Closer, than she should be. "Help me get that rope around you."

There is a thick coil of strings under my right armpit. I look up to see the sky and a slender silhouette of the woman.

Where's the Reaver?

"What?"

Did I say that out loud?

"Barely. You sound like a mumbling, raving lunatic."

That's because I am.

She chuckles, but it dies down soon in a grunt of exertion. I can't feel anything.

When was the last time I heard a woman chuckle because of me?

"Don't be a drongo mate, help me here."

I try, but the darkness spills under my eyelids before I can do anything more than let out a grunt.

oOo

Another stab of pain, and then a relief so intense I can feel my mouth water, the salivary glands working so fast it's unpleasant. Before I have a chance to finish a groan at the sharp ache, I can feel tepid liquid at my lips.

Water!

I gulp it down and try to gather my bearings. I'm sitting up, propped on something semi-comfortable. The crevice I fell into is close, on my right. There's a bike standing neatly beside the Reaver. My ride has landed in a heap but is seemingly intact.

Where's the woman?

I have my answer when a slender hand grabs the canteen from my palm. She's the thing I'm resting on.

What in the actual fuck?!

Reflexively, I try to hit her with my elbow, but she deflects easily and bounces my limbs off as if I was a weak kitten. Flailing, I scramble away in a panic, patting my legs for a weapon. None. My left arm is less than useless. Good to know.

"I wouldn't get you out just to drown you, so don't get your panties in a knot, handsome."

She has them. My knives, my guns, everything.

She notices my eyes darting to the weapons, and her head sways slightly in a disappointed way.

"Nor would I like to be rewarded with a blade through my gut."

The canteen drops at my feet.

"Drink. You need to rehydrate. I reset your shoulder, but you should spare it for a while."

I nod and frown at her even as I take another blessed swig of the water. A sparse movement of my head towards the hole is all the thanks she'll get, and I don't care if she gets the meaning behind it.

She does.

"We're even."

I grunt in agreement. It seems that we are.

"It also seems we're heading the same way."

I try to shake the confusion away. My brain is fogged with exhaustion, and for once I can't mobilise enough to feel threatened. I need time to think.

"Dawn is near. I'll set camp. Rest."

There's no way I'll sleep with someone this close.

No way in hell.

oOo

Under the scorching sun, I wake up.

It seems like I'm dreaming still. It's so unfamiliar; two bikes are standing on each side of me, a canopy of softly rustling fabric over my head, stretched on the handles of the bikes. A canteen of water by my hand.

The only familiar detail is the barrel of a gun aimed at my face. This I know, intimately. The hand holding it is darkened with an extensive tattoo, for a while I thought it was a glove, and it doesn't tremble.

I smile and grunt, and get up, slowly and carefully, mindful of the hole beyond the safety of the makeshift camp. My back hurts, and the awareness of a stranger with a weapon trained on my head is tensing the muscles further. But I need a leak.

She follows my movement with her outstretched arm but otherwise does nothing.

I piss straight into the ravine. Take that, death. Not today.

"I didn't get your supplies from down there."

Shit.

"Please, don't."

How in the hell can she be amused?

How in the hell can I smirk at her lame joke?

I turn back and crawl under the canopy. It's the first time I see her up close in actual sunlight.

There's not much to look at - a haphazard collection of rags, just like my shabby clothing, long and dusty hair in two thick, braided ropes trailing from under a dark hood. Her face is barely visible behind dark goggles, and a scarf draped all around her head. Evidently, she knows her way around the desert, even though her complexion is proof of how seldom she must have ever been here for extended periods of time.

I remember seeing her naked that first night. Her skin was abnormally white then, but now whatever was exposed to sun turned into an ugly shade of red. Nothing in her clothes hints at what is hidden underneath, and I imagine it's intentional.

Despite what she came through she boldly returns my appraising stare.

My eyes drop to her hands. Only one palm is adorned with a tattoo, but it's an actual work of art. Nothing like the abomination carved into my back. Hers is flat and subtle, rusty brown lines flowing delicately around themselves to form the shape of a drop. Like an intricately woven drop of blood.

Her taxing gaze is getting on my nerves. If my hand wasn't lame, I could easily overpower her. Especially in this close quarters.

I close my eyes and calculate my odds.

My legs are still working. She's not too strong. Fast, perhaps, at this moment surely much more agile than me. But I have the advantage in weight. And obviously - experience. How old is she? A decade younger?

An unfamiliar sound has me snapping my eyes open in an instant. I cautiously trail her hand as she reaches behind her back.

Food.

She rests the armed hand on one knee, and casually stretches the other foot towards me.

"I have a proposition for you."

Of course. Nothing is free in this land, nothing is without a price. I listen, with a knowing smile, acknowledging her with a grunt.

"I need a bodyguard to get back home. You could use some help as well. Let's move together for a week or two."

I snort a short laugh. What an idiot!

"No."

She smirks and chews on my fucking grilled grub.

"Suit yourself, fool."

That nickname.

Curiosity gets the best of me. I always was reckless, the passing years didn't change this trait.

"Where to?" I speak automatically.

"That's a funny question," she says like it was the least amusing sentence in the world, drawing the words out. "Do you know Rainbow Valley?"

I do. It's more than a fortnight away. Especially on foot.

"Not enough fuel."

"We could scavenge."

Already - we. Who's the fool now? There are no guarantees out here, nothing to rely on but the things at hand. And right now we have one tank of gas between the two of us. At best.

I shake my head.

"I make my own way." It's all I have to say on the matter.

"Fine," she says.

Oh, this one I remember. I roll my eyes because it's the only way of expressing the exasperation every man feels at this word.

It's never fine. It never was fine. Nothing in this wasteland can ever be fine again.

"I'll leave you when the sun comes down, then. You'll find your weapons half a day that way." She points her hand casually to the east.

oOo

Overpowering her was too easy.

As soon as she nodded off, I slid closer. She didn't move, didn't notice. Where was she living, that on the one hand she could hold her own out in the desert, but in the other - didn't have the necessary survival instincts? How could she not wake, when I was taking the gun from her loosened fingers?

But she did open her eyes alright when she felt the barrel by her temple.

Although, I could only glimpse a shadow of a movement behind the tinted glass of the goggles.

One movement of my head was enough to signal her to take them off. I frowned and settled firmly over her hips, sneaking right knee to the inside of her left elbow, pressing her steadily to the ground.

She slid the cover down, and when her eyes bore into mine, I lost my drift.

Green.

How?

The deep and lush green of moss growing in perpetual shade and moisture. The most unusual colour on the planet. I never knew how much I missed it, until now.

She's crafty. That moment of hesitation was enough to butt me in the head and press that hand with the goggles straight into the junction of my bad shoulder. Fuck, does it hurt! I'm bloody pissed and act on instinct, tightening my legs around her rising body. It puts us both off balance, and we thud on the rocky ground, dangerously close to the ravine.

She whines but never stops her blows right to my injury. Something is missing in her attack. There's no edge to it.

I manage to press her back down flat on the ground and restrain her movements with my right forearm on her throat. Where's that fucking gun?

During our scuffle, her scarf slid down and finally, I can look at her. Her pupils are blown wide even despite the sun, the treacherous emerald of her iris mostly hidden. There's a tint of pink on her cheeks - so unbelievably pale! - and her mouth is wide open, gulping last panicking breaths.

"You really do need protection." I'm surprised at my own words, and it probably shows. With luck, she'd take that as a reaction to our little exercise. "That was pathetic."

Her eyebrows knit together and I can see she saw through my bluff. At least in part. She licks her lips, and my eyes involuntarily travel down with the movement. I catch a glimpse of teeth, as she bits down on her bottom lip, considering.

"How are you going to get your stuff from down there?"

Fuck. She could at least try not to be this smug. I do know that with a useless arm I'm nowhere near able to climb down for the supplies and then back up with the additional weight.

Shit.

I need her as much as she needs me.

She grins, once she can see capitulation written clearly all over my face.

"Let's grab a shuteye and sort it out in an hour or two."

Right. The sun is still scorching – no way we can reasonably do anything in this heat. Too wasteful, especially since nothing is rushing either me or her.

"You can tag along for a while," I say before she has a chance to speak.

Neither of us really sleeps, but we rest under swooshing wind. Tarp over my head dances on the breeze. Everything else is perfectly still, bracing under the sun for the respite of the evening.

For the first time in a long while, I have a set destination to drive to.

oOo

I thought I'm resilient and patient. Apparently, I'm not.

She takes all firearms with her when she climbs down the ravine for my things, and I can feel apprehension in tensing muscles on my back. As I feed the line down the hole, helping her descend gradually and safely, I have this overwhelming urge just to let her fall. I could just take her supplies and maybe go down to get three or four essential things.

These are just thoughts. I'm never going to actually do that.

At least that's what I let myself believe.

She makes a fast job of getting everything back to the surface, without complaints and comments. Before sunset, we have everything strapped down securely to the bikes. Ready to go.

Without any external threat its difficult to let her move with me.

I let her guide my way. It's to the best of my advantage - she's lighter than me, so smaller risk of falling down a hole. And there's something uncanny in the way she moves in the dark, just like a bat, sure of everything in her path. The deciding factor though, is that I can't have her behind my back. She's just fine letting me watch her, pretending she doesn't feel my gaze at the back of her neck.

Maybe she really doesn't. I could be projecting.

I catch myself thinking that I haven't seen Sprog in a while.

oOo

There is a rhythm in any journey.

Once the goal is set, you can measure leaps you do every day, weigh them against each other.

Every morning, way before sunrise, we break camp. She deals with fire, while I carefully distribute water and food. I don't sleep well with her by the other side of the bonfire, so every effort she makes to lure me into a conversation is snuffed out with my irritated grunting.

As a matter of fact, I talk neither with her nor with my ghosts.

Byt the end of the first week, we've entered a sandy patch of desert again. The dunes wind up and down, and we're using the fuel we've been conserving, to get through them. Midday sees us sitting under the tarp, resting. Then, it's trekking through the wasteland again, up until we find a suitable place for the camp, or are too tired to go on.

She is a good walker. Both bikes have small tanks, and a little bit against myself I'm impressed with her stamina and tenacity. Her bike is light, and she takes every shred of advantage she can, using that to conserve as many resources as she can. She rides only if the terrain is too difficult to get through on foot, even if it means scaling the desert by the moonlight.

oOo

There's a truck, right bang in the middle of an erg.

"It's a trap," I notice mildly.

The woman scoffs and dusts her goggles off with an errant end of her scarf.

"Maybe it is," she says, "but if it's not there could be supplies."

There also could be traps, I think. Greed kills just as quickly and as often as stupidity. The two are inseparably linked.

"Check it out then. I'll look after your bike."

She sends me a pointed look and shakes her head.

We slide down one dune, then drive up another, and find a similar picture. This time it's a bus.

"Now that's definitely a trap." I shake my finger at the raddled vehicle and look around saying that, looking for any signs of hostiles. But the sand is untouched, moving only with the wind. Not a soul in sight.

"Maybe it is," she repeats. "Your offer still stands?"

I frown and feel the wrinkles on my forehead crack a thin layer of caked on the sand.

Why not let her kill herself? Less trouble for myself.

I grunt an acknowledgement.

"Anything we find, I take seventy per cent."

"Okay."

That's not important. I'll take only as much, as I need anyway. Which will probably be all her supplies, as she heads straight down to the bus.

Lucky for me, she took only one gun.

Then, there's a flash. Yelling Sprog, creamy fabric flowing on air, dust, dust, so much dust. A crash and the sickening echo of bones crushed under thick tires.

Angharad is smiling just before she slips.

And then there's Sprog again, asking so sweetly, so innocently...

'Max, is that you? Where were you?'

It's gone.

I blink rapidly and lower the hand I raised to shield my eyes from the vision. It never worked before, so now is no different. I shake my head to clear it a fraction. That never works either.

The woman is still descending the dune. Carefully, but steadily. She doesn't know what lies there, doesn't know if there are monsters beneath the sand. And still, she goes.

"Hey!" I yell after her. "I'll come with."

She turns back. Her face is hidden behind cloth and glass, but I imagine she's frowning in confusion.

All this time and she never asked my name. I never offered it, and in return never inquired after hers.

She's still measuring my sudden change of heart.

This is the moment where one can just say a name and convey everything that's important in that one word. What am I supposed to say now?

Then she starts back, resolutely saying nothing as she reaches her bike.

I grunt and nod, she nods back. That's all it takes.

Were scaling the erg side by side.

oOo

She cleans her bike when I get back from a recon walk around the camp. The opportunity is rare, so I postpone entering into the scattered light of the bonfire to have another look at her.

Something is not right. She is both wise and foolish. The knowledge of how to remove sand from the machine may not be obscure, but she religiously tends to every single part of it each and every night. Knowing it's vital is one thing, but caring for her it like she does reveal a lot about her experience.

But then, she goes into what very well could be a trap, with her head high, one guna a hooray to keep her spirits up.

Something moves just beyond my peripheral and I act on instinct, sending my knife straight into the intruders' flesh. A goanna. I pick it up by the tail and return to the camp.

The noise reached the woman of course, and she slid into the shadows beyond the fires reach. Smart again. She moves back in, still aiming the gun she grabbed right at me - the source of the noise. I dangle the lizard before me, like a mock peace offering, or a white flag.

There's our dinner.

I clean the carcass and throw it onto coals. It will take a while to cook, so I use the time to tend to the Reaver.

The woman goes back to the maintenance of her own bike, wordlessly. When she's done, she fusses by her sacks, working with her back turned.

I listen to the mysterious rustles and scraping, then tearing, all accompanied by soft humming. She exhales sharply before turning towards me and scaling the few steps across the camp.

"Here," she says handing me something wrapped in a piece of dark cloth. "For sticking out your neck for me."

The jab is playful, and I smile a little. It was fortunate that the bus wasn't really a bait.

"Let's check out the truck in the morning, okay?"

I grunt in agreement, peeking curiously at the object she gave me. It's a white, waxy block of... Paraffin? I smell it.

It's fragrant. Sweet, flowery, decadent. Soap.

For many, it's worth more than my life.

My head snaps up in surprise, and I manage to catch a polite yet indifferent smirk from her before she tends again to her kit. Her white hands are a stark contrast to the worn, dark leather of the sacks.

"What's it for?" I ask. "The tattoo."

The reply is automatic, I'm sure because it comes in an instant. "It signifies my rank in the clan."

She seems to regret saying it the moment the words leave her tongue.

"Is it high?" I push.

"Nah, not really."

I can tell she's lying. Not because of her words, or their delivery. But no one regular treats a luxury like soap as a souvenir of an eventful trip. The bar is apparently cut in half, so she probably left herself the remaining piece. Not enough to bargain for anything significant. But just the right amount to use.

Sadly, that won't be possible. The water is just too valuable to use on frivolous things like cleaning up.

* * *

 **Darling Sxevlbtch:**  
 **I'm very glad you liked, and even more glad to be back! :)**

 **Dear Guts-R:**  
 **Thank you very much! I thought that going straight into Max' psyche might be fun. Boy, was I underprepared**.. **It was interesting as hell, though.**


	3. Chapter 3, War of attrition

**Only one more to go!**

 **As always, you'll find review responses at the very bottom. :) And if you're interested in a version of this story with very captivating pictures - visit my Tumblr at ilovehighhats.**

* * *

oOo

 _PART THREE:_

 _WAR OF ATTRITION_

oOo

This time it's she who takes the wrong step.

One moment she's few paces before me, pushing the bike steadily and carefully through the dunes morphing into rocks. And then a sharp shriek as she vanishes below ground is all the forewarning I get before she disappears. Almost in a puff of smoke, as the sand rises in a sheer cloud above the gap, she fell into.

I throw myself flat on the ground and crawl toward the hole, but then an unfamiliar sound makes me freeze dead in my tracks.

A splash?

A moment later I see the ground before me crumble and disappear too.

"Oh, fuck, shit, hell… "

I land not-so-gently into a pool of freezing water. It's dark, oppressive and my clothes are like lead weights - not to mention the actual metal contraption on my leg - dragging me down. Bubbles tickle my skin, as they race up to the surface, giving me a direction to go to. If only I weren't so heavy... A strong palm grabs the fabric around my arm, and I remember to kick and try to get upward. It feels like hours before I manage to emerge from the icy depths.

We're in a cave. A fucking underground cave with stalagmites and shit, and no obvious way up.

She laughs hysterically between gulps of air, keeping one hand clawed into my bicep, kicking desperately to keep us both afloat. I'm more of ballast than help. Why would she even keep up with rescuing me time and time again? It's stupid. She should have left me to die back in that ravine. Would take all of my supplies and be on her way.

Acceptance almost has the upper hand when the irritation kicks in.

If I drown, that will take the fucking cake. Of all the ways to die…

Salvation comes in the shape of a small rocky shelf at the edge of the water. I'm grateful to have something steady and flat to lay down on. The woman is panting, as am I, but she rests sitting up, looking towards the ceiling, her hands working nimbly, but absentmindedly on her gear. She disrobes as if I wasn't there, gracefully and without unnecessary flair. I'm still shaken from the fall I should be bent on finding a way out, in preserving all my weapons… But I let myself just watch her, for a little while.

The sinkhole got bigger as I went, but thankfully it didn't reach the Reaver. The gap is wide enough to shed a beam of sunlight straight down into the cave. The water is crystal clear, and I can see the woman's bike on its side at the bottom of the lake.

She dives in, and it's mesmerising to watch her lithe body wiggle closer, and closer to her goal. Her skin is so pale it's almost glowing.

It's like those old-timey paintings, art deco it was called I think, all flowing lines and tempting curves. A gentle reminder of ages when the luxury of swimming wasn't impossible to find.

I frown, wondering when did she learn to swim in the wasteland.

When she emerges, I can't take my eyes off of her. A mermaid, stretching her hand to drag me to the deep. Generous breasts peek shyly from under the surface of the water, droplets of the liquid bead on her lashes like crystals, the thin sheen of moisture making her lips look so inviting...

There's something in her tattooed palm.

"I've got a rope. Help me get the bike out."

I grunt in agreement.

She dives again to secure the line to the machine. This time, when she comes back, I have to make myself look up at the sinkhole. She obviously doesn't care about her nudity, and I wonder why it irks me the way it does.

We grab the line and pry the mass of steel out, inch by inch. Buoyancy helps a lot, but the last stretch has us on our knees by the edge, heaving the bike out with great effort.

My shoulder is killing me. I lay down, panting, as soon as the work is done. She is just beside, chest heaving with deep breaths.

I can't help noticing, from the corner of my eye, that she shivers slightly. The muscles relax after the exercise, letting the chill of the cave seep into our bones.

I could lick the water off her skin to warm up.

The thought, so clear and abrupt, makes me sit up.

I take all of my gear off, methodically and angrily. I'm sure my lips are set in a cruel line, but I can't make myself change the expression, as I can't loosen the rigid muscles stiffening my back. All I want now is to escape the cold, wet fabric.

When I take off the shirt I hear her gasp - that tattoo is hard to miss - and as soon as I have the boots and harness off, I get back up to slid off my pants. No time for shyness.

I go in feet first. Now that I expect the plunge and subsequent pull it's easier to stay afloat. The water is cold, but that's okay. It's just what I need. I drink greedy mouthfuls as I swim and let myself just experience.

After a while I'm drifting on my back, shamelessly soaking up the warmth from the sun. But the water's too cold.

She watches me in turn as I swim to the shore, a pensive turn of her head and slight frown telling me all I need to know about her state of mind. Inquisitive and curious. She surprises me with her words though.

"You really are handsome."

I snicker at her remark. What does it matter anyway?

Then I realise the error I made in underestimating her words. She has the look. The one every man knows.

The dumbstruck expression I sport probably doesn't help in keeping up the heady air of interest. It's too unusual to stay collected though.

Her tattooed palm slides up to pick softly at that pink bottom lip.

Oh, fuck.

The spell is broken - she laughs - I must have said that aloud. Again.

Then she clicks her teeth in mock discontent and slides away towards her pile of clothes.

I sigh a quiet breath of relief. That was close.

She rummages through the wet sacks on the bike, exclaiming excitedly when she finds something worthwhile. It's the bar of soap.

Just when I thought I'm safe.

oOo

I'm not looking.

She is quiet, and all I can hear is a soft splash of water when she wets the rag, or a rustle when she scrapes the bar to make some foam. Then total silence when she lathers her skin.

I don't have to look, to know what I'd see.

The worst thing is the smell. It's sweet and flowery, alien and forbidden, welcoming and familiar, all at the same time.

"What is it?" she asks.

Have I been mumbling to myself again?

I drop my hands (when did I cover my ears?) and grunt something noncoherent, but hopefully reassuring.

I won't look.

She sighs, and I know, I know exactly what's about to happen.

"Could you help me?"

"No."

"Jerk."

I snort a sharp exhale and sit further still, nearly hugging my knees to stay warm. How to get out of here?

"Do you climb?" she asks again.

"If I have to."

"Right, the leg, and the arm." Scrub, scrub, scrub. Splash, slosh and a sigh.

Fuck.

I'm not looking.

"I think I can make it up. The rope won't be enough, but you should have some more by your bike, right?"

I turn around. A mistake.

She's kneeling on the shore, stretching out to fill the canteen. One hand braces her weight on the rock, an extended leg keeps her in balance. Her hair flows down in ropes over her shoulders, obscuring her face in a lacy fringe. Like fisherman's net. The movement has her hips high in the air, and I can admire the plumpness and graceful curve of them.

Shit, I shouldn't look.

One good thing though, I'm actually warmer now.

"Right?" Her question startles me a bit. Didn't she notice, or does she simply not care?

"Yeah, it's strapped to the left sack."

At least one thing I can do right. Have something serviceable on me.

I feel pretty useless.

"No, you're not. You're my bodyguard."

I scoff at that.

Like hell I am.

At least this time I make sure not to mumble my thoughts aloud.

"I'm done," she announces.

Sitting there, like a fucking mermaid, long hair braided on one side, she's finishing a neat thread just as I twist towards her. Her back is straight, and she is comfortably leaning sideways, her legs folded, like on that ancient painting…

She looks up at me.

I grunt and turn back toward the cave wall, frowning. Why would she say she's done before putting her clothes back on?

My eyes wander everywhere around, to keep myself from looking at her. There's no apparent way out, other than the sinkhole. When she climbs up, we'll attach the bike, and I'll try to make the climb with the rope. Then it's only hoping that the line won't break while we'll be hauling the vehicle up.

For now, though, I'm trapped here, in a cave from another world. The cold and dampness is a welcome respite.

I could use the time to trim my hair, and maybe steal some of that soap. The water isn't perfectly still when I move to look in my reflection on the surface. I do have a mirror, but it's stashed on the Reaver.

When I'm almost convinced to use the side of one knife as a reference while cutting with the other, I hear the woman nearing me with measured steps.

"I'll lend you a hand."

"You have your job set for you," I argue, motioning with my hand towards the sinkhole.

"I want to rest first."

That's rare.

"My bike is still there," I remind her, sternly.

"I doubt many more lunatics would trek through the mountain, instead of over it."

Probably not.

I grunt and roll my eyes. There's no way I can make her do, what needs to be done, before she decides it's time, apparently.

"Besides, it's midday. No point going back there in the worst sun," she argues.

I can't find any more excuses to just run away from here. She's right. This little place is a miracle, and who knows when would be the next time I'll have to opportunity to just take care of myself and enjoy what little comfort some water and soap can bring.

It's just too tempting.

"Here," she gives me the bar. My piece is safely hidden in the bag upon the Reaver - she knows that -, and I'm sure she'd want some back. But it's still nice to be handed that smooth rectangle, and a piece of cloth. With a smile.

"Let's cut your hair first, okay?"

I nod and can't seem to look anywhere but at the fragrant thing in my hands.

"How long do you want it?"

"Crop it close to the skin."

She hums an affirmative, and I hand her one of my knives. After a little while, I'm able to let go of the blade.

The mood is sombre, and the air carries a fragile kind of silence. My body is taut with tension, while she tries to appear both relaxed and purposeful.

The first cut is sure and easy. She dangles that dirty lock of hair before my face and grins. The rest comes down in a flash since she's not making a pretence of shaving it, only shortens everything as quickly as possible.

"I can smooth out the sides when we'll get rid of the beard."

I run my fingers through now unfamiliar bristly hair. I used to wear it like this all the time. I used to have a razor and a reason to work it. And a will to keep using it.

"Get clean first, shaving can wait," she says, trying to bring me out if my sulky mood. She gathers the hair together with care, making sure all strands face the same way. Then she binds one end with a string. It will be useful.

I'm still amazed at her contradictions.

She looks up at me before getting up and walking to her stack of clothes.

"Go on," she urges with a soft smile.

Right, I still clutch the soap and that rag.

She offers me her flask and some privacy, and I get to cleaning. It's surprisingly satisfying, not only because of all the dirt coming out but also for the simple pleasure of seeing an instant result. Like running a hand over a dusty lamp. Wham-bam-done! Clean and tidy.

It's also nice to watch the lather form on a scrap of fabric in my hands and to smell that sweet flowery scent. The scrubbing is not exactly pleasant, but there's merit to it, and I'm far from being hurt by some friction.

As I pour the water over my back I hiss, the dislocated shoulder making itself heard again. That fall certainly didn't help.

Without any prompting on my part, or questions on hers, the woman is suddenly beside me, her hand outstretched expectantly towards the rag.

So I just give it to her, and resign myself into her hands, my outstretched arms resting comfortably on my knees. The position gives her plenty of room to work on my back, and I have the opportunity to hide away my face.

Because I know, I'll like it.

First, she splashes some water onto the cloth, and I'm almost hopeful, that the look I saw earlier was just a little mistake. I can hear her work the bar over the fabric, wet and slick splashing reminding me of something entirely different than bodily hygiene… Then she's pressing the rag to my skin and the feel of it, of someone else than myself touching me, is electric. I can't take it.

My breath deepens, in a futile effort to calm the ingrained drive to run, or neutralise the intruder - or possibly both.

And then, her fingers stray over the cloth, the fabric must have rolled with movement or something, and the actual touch, skin on skin contact, breaks what little is left of my composure.

I jerk away, turn towards her and just growl.

She fucking smirks.

"I'll sit on you to shave your face. Get used to it."

Am I the crazy one here? It doesn't look like it, not anymore. I can't fathom why she has this much faith in her abilities or that amount of trust towards me? Stupid. Moronic. Illogical.

She was raped a few weeks back, and now she's practically pouncing on me, completely unashamed not only of her own nudity but also unbashful about mine.

What the actual fuck?

"Come on," she says, clicking her teeth impatiently, "We haven't got all day."

"I want the beard after all."

"Oh, really?"

Her hands are stretched towards me again, motioning to get closer and turn back.

And I do just that.

"It's better to leave it on. Shields from the sun," I murmur absentmindedly.

Her hand, covered with the fabric, is between my shoulder blades. Circling slowly, the pressure firm and assuring.

"Let me shorten it at least, then."

She shifted right behind me, working with slow, but purposeful movements. She splashes some more water directly onto my shoulders and adds the other palm. I can feel the change in coverage, plus she nearly embraces the joint now. Soon, her hands work in a gentle rhythm. I sway with the movement, for once giving in to the ministrations of someone else on my body.

It does feel fucking awesome.

She hums absentmindedly. I don't know that tune, but it brings back memories.

"I barely remember what I look like, underneath."

She grunts softly at that. There was a generous dose of surprise when she said I was handsome earlier today. Perhaps she really thinks that.

Well, one thing is certain - I am not the only barmy one around here.

Her hands push lower, along the ridge of my spine, and with them, all the blood I had in my head sinks down too. It's a tingling I didn't feel for quite a while. And in a second it turns into a pulsating, insistent throb.

Next time she sloshes water on my back, it's like a silky caress, the cold liquid welcome on overheating skin. I'm almost dizzy when her palms slide up and down my back. I'm waiting for it, welcoming it.

I don't care, for a moment, don't think.

And she uses that, she can see my temporary lapse in judgement. One kind of insanity nullifying the other. With a smile she slides sideways, slithering gracefully over my thighs.

I let her.

My hands automatically close over her hips. Still smiling, she lathers the soap onto my beard, working the bar in tight little circles, wasting the precious resource on something that will grow back in a fortnight. Slick foam covers my lips. I can pretend I can't speak.

I won't.

But then she calmly rests the soap on the rag by my side and continues to caress my jaw with just her fingers.

I am truly speechless.

Not motionless, though. When she reaches for the knife, my palm closes on her outstretched wrist.

"Let me."

I can't.

"Yes, you can," she argues. "Here," she says and brings our hands up. All the way to her throat.

This is pure madness.

The blade scrapes over my cheek, too close for comfort, but I'm mesmerised with the idea of being in control. Deep down I know, I'm not. But it's like with any belief. The heat clouds my rationality. And even my insanity seems temporarily gone. I feel her strong pulse under my skin, both over her jugular and in the thick vein in the hollow of her hip. My own heartbeat echoes with pulsating throb at the pit of my stomach.

She's fastidious, never missing a hair, scraping the years of neglect laboriously away. It's better than anything I felt in decades.

It's worse than my most vivid nightmares.

As long as she works on my cheeks, I can keep my composure. Then, she has to scrape away the moustache, and she makes me suck in my lips. She giggles, stupidly. Corners of my mouth turn upwards.

"Don't move, you fool," she warns me.

One quick look into my eyes and she's going in with the blade, gingerly working on the narrow patch of skin under my nose.

The hand I have on her throat slackens, while the other grips the flesh bolder than I ever would. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she smiles wider for a moment, before she bites her bottom lip and frowns in concentration. The chin is challenging.

Her palm guides my head upwards.

I'm exposed, willingly offering my throat to a stranger with a knife.

It's too much.

All I can focus on is the unbearable discomfort of keeping my head back. Only after a while, I realise that she doesn't move. Laboured, panicked breathing echoing in the cave is not only mine. I have to make a deliberate, conscious effort to relax the hand that squeezed hard on her throat.

Her left palm still keeps my head turned up, thumb caressing my jawbone.

"Let me," she says softly.

I move the hand crushing her throat down. Her heartbeat is drumming powerfully in her ribcage. The muscles in her belly tighten and squeeze when I slide lower still.

I hold on to her hips and suck in my bottom lip, keeping the pressure of my teeth steady to ground myself.

Soft breaths caress the skin of my throat. The blade tickles. Falling hair is irritating. She works fast and sloppy, but that's okay. Her hand is sliding surely, which is all that matters.

It's over in an instant. The blade clinks on the rocks, discarded without care.

She guides my head back to its proper position and doesn't take her hands off. Instead, her fingers slide through the short scruff on my neck, scratch on my scalp, glide over my temples.

When her thumbs reach my lips, I close my eyes.

Each stroke leaves my ears buzzing with the rush of blood. I hold on to her hips still, panting but otherwise still. Bracing for her next move.

She doesn't ask permission before her tongue glides, wet and warm and sinful, over my parted lips. I open my mouth wider, catching her with my teeth, anything but accidental. The move is met with a hum of appreciation, and I can feel it all the way down to my cock.

She rises up on her knees to kiss me deeper, pushing her pelvis into my stomach. Delicate fingers sneak to the back of my head, and I allow her to angle it back. This time it's not capitulation, it's acceptance.

The wet slide of a tongue tasting my mouth doesn't feel like an invasion. I welcome it, just as I welcome foreign moisture dripping down the skin of m abdomen.

She moans in satisfaction when I give back as good, as she delivers, adding hungry teeth to the entanglement of our lips.

My right hand trembles slightly with excitement. I press my fingers hard into the supple flesh of her breasts, trying to hide it with roughness. She hisses and grabs my wrist, ending the kiss.

As she looks into my eyes, panting heavily, she guides our hands again. I can see her brows knitting in concentration.

I nod, and she bites on her bottom lip.

Then, her hand leaves my wrist, and she grabs my shoulder for support.

I gulp down the moisture overflowing in my mouth.

There. Darkness engulfs me, when I slide my knuckles through her folds, gathering moisture, stoking up the fire. She whimpers, and I open my eyes to admire the destroyed look in her eyes. The palm I had on her hips has a life of its own, holding her possessively at the base of her thigh, pressing her even closer.

I let myself feel only the pleasure of the task. Even though I am not the recipient of it, even though her attention is focused purely inward, I still moan with her at the slick dripping from her cunt, I still bite my own lips and furrow my brows with concentration when my fingers enter her gently and carefully.

Just one digit, but already I can feel the muscles closing greedily around it.

Her head drops down, resting her forehead on mine. The fast breaths and sharp gulps of air she takes fan out on my overheated skin. But I can only focus on one place, I have eyes for one thing only.

I lean back a little bit, keeping her in place. Now, we both have a good view of my palm, dark and damaged, disappearing between her pink lips. My index finger goes in without resistance, coming back glistening with her desire. Then I add another, slowly, torturing her with the rough pad stretching her opening.

The moan she lets out does sound like she's in pain. But it's obvious that she's enjoying the burn. She can't hide it, practically riding my hand for more friction.

She surprises me, abruptly pushing back. Another kiss, hot and wet and needy, has me distracted enough that her small palm at my cock is a shock. It feels like both too much and not enough at the same time. I moan into her mouth and find my way back to her core, enjoying the growl she gives me when I fill her out with three fingers this time.

It's not rushed, which amazes me.

She pulls on my cock with much enthusiasm and little skill, and I shove my hand up against her clit. But the movements are drawn out, deliberate. The heat is there alright, as id the need, but none of that is violent. Even my biting is more of a sign of hunger than malice. Her bruising grip on my skin is a way to anchor her in this moment.

Humanity is not something one easily finds in the wasteland.

My eyes dart between her face and my hand, sometimes straying to admire her perfect, bouncing breasts. The end is rushing at me, I can feel it in tightening at the pit of my stomach, in the saliva overflowing my mouth.

With a half-realised memory, I press my thumb to her clit, using her own slick to roll it around easily. Twice is all it takes before her eyes widen, her mouth falls open, and she arches her head back. The palm she had on my cock moves to my wrist, keeping me immobile, lodged deep inside her body, as she rides the duration of her orgasm.

It's enough for me to grab my shaft and pull a few times, and I'm spent too. The jet of creamy fluid falls mostly on my hand and her thigh. It's as warm, as blood.

Coming down from the high I pant deeply, fighting to keep my eyes open.

Finally, she lets go of my wrist, grabbing my jaw instead, diving in for another deep and wicked kiss. Contrary to how I feel, she seems invigorated, grinning at me when she's done.

"Let's clean up, and get out of here," she says simply.

* * *

 **Sxevlbtch: Oh I do know. I can't read it until I finish this one, because I'm afraid of duplicating River.**


	4. Chapter 4, Riding for a Fall

oOo

 _PART FOUR:_

 _RIDING FOR A FALL_

oOo

This was an aberration. Lunacy. Madness.

Is it too late to run?

I know I'm trapped in here, in the cave, at least for now. I understand.

But the need rushes through my veins along with blood. I'm hungry to run, to chase nothing but freedom. To feel the relentless heat, and harsh wind, and abrasive sand on my skin again. The stable and solid rock under my feet feels constraining. I want slippery and shifting dirt under my feet, caked in a thin crusty layer on my clothes and under my nails.

This cleanliness, this calmness is outlandish to me now. It feels too vulnerable.

The long and the short of it is, I'm mad.

But that woman is even crazier than I.

She left me dazed on the cave floor, looking at the rocky ceiling, trying to gather my bearings after the insanity that transpired between the two of us. At least we both had the presence of mind only to use our hands. What was that, anyway?

I still tremble with last remnants of the excitement and shock when she dresses and starts her climb. My clothes are still wet, like hers, so I linger on the cave floor nude and confused for the time being. What a funny picture that must be.

The woman climbs with expertise and agility. Clearly, she has done this before. Now I can see in all their glory the muscles in her back and thighs, bulging with exertion; deceptively lean on the first glance, for their obvious strength.

She winds her way up to the hole, and I hope the edge won't crumble. It seems like the gap we fell into is mostly solid rock. Perhaps someone covered it to preserve water, and we unwittingly marched into what is someone's well. Maybe it was a naturally thin cave wall, and we were the first beings heavy enough to shatter it. The truth is, even if her bike is relatively light, with all the gear and her bodyweight it's easily over two hundred kilos.

I hold my breath for a moment, as she nears the end of her journey. It's amazing how strong she is, hanging on near flat rock anchored solely on her fingertips. I exhale only when she manages to fling her arm up into the surface and slowly pulls back into the sun-drenched landscape.

It's time for me to dress.

oOo

It's already dark by the time we manage to pull everything up. By some miracle, the rope didn't snap when she used the Reaver to get her bike out.

We camp by the gap, huddled close to the machines. No fire.

The woman doesn't talk much, and I try not to look at her too often. It's as if the episode in the cave didn't happen at all. As if we were still only two wanderers sharing the road we travel and nothing else.

Of course, that's the smart way to approach it. The reasonable way. We should be as far apart, as we can.

I crane my head up to look at the stars. Should have mapped this spot already. But I can't bring myself to leave her alone, not now. Tomorrow, perhaps, in the morning. I'll probably wake before her.

But I need the stars to measure the angle...

She straightens suddenly, motioning for me to stay in my spot. Bathroom break. Now it's the best time to get out my treasured piece of cloth, and pierce my flesh, and mark this spot for future use. The bus and the truck are good road signs. The mountain range we're scaling has some unique formations too. It would be easy to find later on.

The truth is - I don't want to leave a trace of this. Not on my map, not in my head.

But she's already here, lodged comfortably between Jesse and Sprog, between The Valkyries and Furiosa. Smiling so sweetly, enticingly, reaching out to me with a hand glistening with water...

An abundance of water all around me...

A fucking siren, that's what she is. Not a measly mermaid of fairytales and children's stories, but a mythical being preying on weak men.

Such as I.

When she comes back, I pretend to be asleep.

oOo

There's a storm brewing.

The air crackles with electricity and were both on edge. Not like it's going to rain. But clouds are gathering in a thick blanket on the horizon, mounting one above the other, rising in a never-ending crescent of perspiration. It will dissipate before droplets could ever reach the earth. If not, chances are the rain will be short and sparse, falling on a small patch of land in an acidic curtain.

What I wouldn't give to feel warm drops of rain falling down on my skin.

But I know it won't ever happen. The few short hours in the cave were the only respite I'll get in the foreseeable future from the heat and cold of the desert. This is a rare occurrence here, and I know wishing for rain won't do me any good.

Still, I long for it.

The woman is silent beside me, as one of my ghosts. Its unsettling, how calm she is, how collected. As if it never happened. Her lips were never pressed to mine. Her hands didn't caress ropes of scars on my back. Her breath didn't stutter when I pushed my fingers deep between her folds.

Was it all in my head?

The storm is rising before us in a pillar of dust.

Without a word, we stop at the nearest outcrop. The bikes make up one wall of the shelter, while the rock provides two other. It should be fine.

I'm forced to revisit that statement when it's time for us to settle. The woman (What is her name? How do I call her?) folds herself close to me. It's reasonable. Logical. Practical.

I can't forget the way she writhed on top of me, or licked her lips, or kissed my skin.

The sand is abrasive, grains frantically dancing on the wind, and soon my only thoughts are of survival.

She drenched our scarfs in water, and I gave her some of my vaseline to protect her nose. That's it. It's all we have until the dust storm passes. That and our bodies, huddled close, touching hip to hip.

It descends like a curtain dropped suddenly and without care. The churning mass of air and sand roars over us, slamming rocks and debris like a bully with a vengeance. But the wasteland doesn't need any reason to try to kill us. It's always that - a magnificent view and a moment of beauty paired up to distract anyone stupid enough to get themselves killed.

Stupid fucker that I am, I marvel at the brilliance of hues beyond the sand raging all around. I wonder if the woman can see the incredible play of colour from behind her goggles.

oOo

By the third day after, I'm almost back to my old self.

This patch of the wasteland is completely flat. Rough gravel paves a good road in all direction, so we use the last of the fuel to power through. I should know better. Instead of stupidly cutting through in the shortest but most dangerous route I should have taken the big arching path to the south.

I'm too anxious to get rid of the woman and get my peace, and my ghosts, back. I'm hot and irritated. Hungry. Tired.

Just another day in the wasteland.

It's the last thought that I recollect clearly before the adrenaline rush. And then, we fall into a trap. Granted, it was one set carefully, and with much consideration. A hard one to cuts through the hum of the Reavers' engine. I turn back and see three vehicles behind. Scavengers. Closing in on us, fast.

There is nowhere to run.

I turn to the woman, see that she noticed too, and lock my eyes on her goggles. She nods. It's getting harder and harder not to grin. I'm elated with the prospect of what's about to happen.

She cackles beside me when we slow our bikes.

The gun is already in her hand, and I aim the one I grasp besides her. The shots are slow, considered, accurate. I take the vehicle on the left, while she dispatches the one on the right. The drivers are down. She gets the person behind the wheel in the middle car when they are just before us. I blow up one of the front tires, making the vehicle swerve and crash into his fellow on the left.

The woman turns and follows the third car with the muzzle of her gun. I see the target. Stupid fuckers mounted an additional tank in plain view.

It erupts into a brilliant bonnet of red, black and yellow. An animalistic scream pierces my ears.

Two cars left still.

Looming shadow of the passing cloud spills before me when I shuffle close to the wrecked cars. The sun sets, and its orange rays reflect off of the cumulus, bathing everything in a grotesque hue.

Each and every day of my life feels surreal. Each and every moment is like watching a stranger, a deranged man, acting in a way that would make me gasp and scream.

It's my new norm now. It's what's expected, what's needed. I relish ridding the wasteland of the scavenger scum polluting it. There is nothing civilised in my pleasure at blowing the brains out of a useless piece of shit. I used to mourn every death, once upon a time. Not anymore. Not for a long while. Only survival matters now.

There is no doubt in my mind I'd be dead or on my way to death if I didn't shoot first. The experience of the wasteland taught me to know in an instant who was a threat and who could be an asset, one way or the other.

The woman strips the bodies with me, rummaging through the junk in the cars to get anything of value. Ammo, guzzoline, food, water, trinkets. There's a lot of it between us two.

We drive away when it's dark, intent on getting as far away as possible in the least amount of time. When the flames of the still burning car shrink into a little twinkling light we'll get down to rest. For now, the gravel jumps in long curving tails from under the back wheels of the Reaver and the woman's bike. A symphony of noises. The night air is so deliciously damp and cold on the skin of my face. The stinging from constant sunburn subsides, and I get back into my head for a little while. My old, unbroken self, gets back the reins and just enjoys the night ride through the desert.

oOo

I wake up with a start.

"It's okay, you're safe," she says carefully from her spot by the bike. Her tone aims for confident and calm but misses its mark by a hair. "It's alright now."

I squint and frown at her all at the same time, trying to understand what woke me up in the first place. She's still on her bedroll and doesn't appear to have moved. No one seems to be near. The night is still dark and quiet.

"You screamed," she explains at length. "I threw a rock at you, to snap you out of that dream."

It registers after a second. My forehead does have an unfamiliar throbbing sting, a little to the side...

"You threw a rock at me?"

"Well, what else could I do and not alert anyone in the nearest vicinity that we're here?" she hisses.

I only grunt to that and turn more comfortably on my side. Facing her openly, measuring her words. It's true, I have to admit, if I did as much as talk in my sleep that could be dangerous. To be honest, I'm surprised it took this long to surface at all.

"I think I recognised some of the markings on those cars," she says.

Now, this is unexpected. A change of subject to spare me some of the discomfort? How merciful.

"I heard of a scavengers tribe like that once. We may be a little too far south from my home, but we're getting there."

"Good," I say because it is. Right? That's what we're teamed up for. To get her home, get me the pay, and part ways.

"Your shoulder seems almost healed now," she throws the comment like a lifeline to get me out of my head.

That's right, I barely registered the pain from it anymore. The constant tingling of the sunburnt skin is more irritating than this. I can use it almost as I would before the fall.

I roll to my back and look towards the sky. Stars are visible, but there are a few patches of clouds here and there. Deceiving people into thinking there could be rain or respite.

Not in this life.

Not out in the wasteland.

She sighs and I wait until she breathes evenly before I close my eyes again.

oOo

I can feel the end of our journey is near. Don't know how, but it's one of those things that you don't question. Like Sprog's warnings, or Furiosa's sarcastic sideways glance. Million information compressed into a tenth of a second.

It's not far now.

I can't wait until I am alone again.

I dread being left only with my ghosts again.

I fear wanting to stay on the road with another human being.

None of that is showing on my face, but I blurt some nonsense in my sleep again. I'm sure of it because in the mornings she looks at me differently when she thinks I don't notice.

Softly, pitifully.

There's no place for that in the wastelands.

This night we have fire and can roast some lizards. The woman cleans her bike, then eats in silence in a routine that seems too familiar by now. I take care of the Reaver, but I'm distracted, thoughts running through my head in short bursts, spilling all at once, bouncing one off the other too fast to leave a coherent sentence for me to hang on to.

My skin crawls with unease. During the day the sweat, along with caked on sand irritates me, itches in places I can't reach. Then, there's the wind at nights. Strong and cold gusts of air fall down on our camp in regular intervals, like waves eating at the shore.

Sometimes I wish for silence.

The wasteland is never truly silent. There's always a rush of sounds. Of blood in my ears, or of gale on my skin, or of sand underneath the tyres. Hurry up and die, or hurry up and live. I never know which is it in the end.

If only I could understand all those whispers. Sometimes they talk all at once, even if I feel like all the world has muted and closed its ears.

A rustle attracts my attention. It's the woman. She sits up, shifts to her knees and stands. Then proceeds to angrily take off her clothes. Scarf and goggles land softly on her bedroll, then the belt thuds heavily. She sneers like the canvas jacket did something to displease her, as apparently did her light linen shirt. It's so much different from the way she disrobed back in the cave. Now it's as if the clothes burned her, ate at her skin, melted into her hair.

She has to sit down to unlace and yank off her shoes, and she does it frantically almost. Never even a whimper escapes her lips during all this commotion. Her wrappings off her legs, she stands up and finally, a sound leaves her lips.

She sighs, then turns towards me.

Why is she coming here?

The question never reaches my lips.

The woman falls to her knees beside my bedroll.

"That itch," she mumbles, "I can't get rid of it."

I'm halfway up when she reaches me, so now we're nearly face to face. I shift to my knees as well and grab her by the arms, to maintain the distance between us.

I have no idea what is she talking about. The answer is clear.

"Your problem, not mine. Deal with it."

"I am."

The words left her tongue at the same moment when she twisted her palms to grab my biceps. Just that, just a touch of hands on my body, through the leather of the jacket and fabric of my shirt, and I am almost leaning into her.

I let her guide my palms, again.

Delicately, and without insisting, her right-hand slides down to my elbow, pushing my whole arm towards her. I loosen the grip on her flesh, and she smiles softly, tracing the length of my forearm as far as she can reach. When my skin touches her bare back, she closes her eyes and touches her forehead to mine.

"Scratch," she whispers.

And I do. I rake my nails down her spine, relishing the curve of it, as she moans lowly and presses even closer. On the way up I press on her muscles, delicately, just enough to feel the bones of her ribcage under the skin. Then it's back to scoring down her spine, and across her shoulder blades, over her clavicles and underneath her breasts.

Her hands twist the fabric at my chest, grabbing the sweatshirt for support and grounding her into the moment.

I'm too hot and too cold, all at the same time. Her skin is cool to the touch but runs hot and red where my nails left a trail of raised welts. The marks look like a tattoo.

I grab her by the buttocks, filling my palms with the softness there. The plumpness speaks of wealth and safety. But obviously, she has a taste for danger. There's recklessness in the way she presses herself even closer to my body, a helpless resignation to the whim, the itch, that made her come here.

She exhales loudly when I press her insistently to my abdomen, the hardness unmistakeable and bold.

My forehead still touches hers when I feel the rough skin of her knuckles under my shirt. I close my eyes, focusing only on the weight of soft flesh in my hands, and sharp nails tracing a sure path down my stomach.

It's far too easy to fall. I know exactly what she intends to do.

I was like her, once. The perfect predator, the perfect prey. The wasteland blurs lines between the two.

The buckle comes undone almost without a sound and the leather of my pants parts with minimal resistance. There's not much in her way.

Vaguely, I'm aware of the too tight grasp I have on her, because she hisses, at the same time I do. But I do for an entirely different reason. The cold night air is almost soothing on my exposed skin. I open my eyes to watch the need build inside her eyes.

She slicks her lips with one fast lick of her tongue, glistening under the starlight. I can't gauge her mood at the moment, all of my thoughts focused below the waist, on her hand holding my cock.

I don't flinch, don't jerk away. Only bite my bottom lip and gulp down a moan.

Nothing in the wasteland had the right to be this gentle and survive.

Her left hand grips at my shoulder and she presses impossibly close, stomach to stomach, lifting her right knee momentarily. Her foot is on tiptoes when she angles her hips just so, and I slide inside her tight heat. Then she lowers her knee back down and we're close, so close together, even my breath isn't entirely my own.

I didn't remember a woman being this hot. Captivatingly sweet and wet. Tight and soft at the same time.

Both her hands are at the back of my neck now, holding tight. She whimpers and squeezes the muscles in her thighs, and - oh god - it's the best torture. I barely can move, but there's no real need to, not yet. A slight tip of my hips is enough to push my cock deeper inside, to wrangle a satisfied sigh out of her mouth, and straight into mine.

Contrary to what I want to pretend before myself, there is no dizziness clouding my reason. My head is absolutely clear. I can feel, see, and remember everything in razor-sharp detail.

How her nostrils flare at every intake of her shortened breath.

How she knits her eyebrows in concentration, squeezing me with her internal muscles.

How her wetness leaks out, tickling the fine hair at the top of my thighs.

The grasp on my shoulders turns desperate. She strains for the release, but doesn't hurry. If anything, she seems more thorough, more intent on getting each and every movement exactly right.

It does feel perfect.

The pleasure is almost agonising. Although she does most of the work, I'm not idle. Every upstroke is mine, with my hands on her hips, my pelvis grinding insistently up and up. Each backstroke is hers, with her muscles tensing, grabbing, pulling...

I can't breathe anymore, the mingling of air and moans between us suddenly too much. I grab her hair with one palm, press my head to her shoulder and now that I can gulp the cold desert air, now I begin to move in earnest.

The woman sinks her nails in the leather of my jacket and holds fast.

I'm tensed into a stone, rigid muscles focused only on one task.

This is what freedom should feel like. Not the constant fear and exhaustion, but this, pure pleasure and elation.

Her mouth is at my ear, whispering spells and demands. I go faster when she tells me to. I go deeper, although I don't think it's possible. I go harder, throwing my head back, feeling first her lips at my craned neck, then her teeth, and finally her climax.

She's almost spilling through my hands when she's done, but she tries to hold on. I ram my cock up ruthlessly, chest heaving in the futile effort to give me enough oxygen to calm down that frantic heartbeat. It grows into a stampede, and blinds me with a white rush of the finish.

Tranquillity does come soon after that, under the guise of a feather-light kiss.

I don't even know, when exactly I fall back onto my bedroll, and then - asleep.

oOo

On the next day, it all seems like a dream.

Wordlessly as always, we gather all our supplies in the morning, clean up the campsite and set on our way. Just like any other day.

My mind wanders, trapped in between last night and the brightness of the day. What will happen when we stop to sleep this time? Will she come to me again? Will I mark the spot on my map? Will Sprog hop out of her hiding behind my eyelids, and remind me all of the things I thought long forgotten?

Fuck.

I'm distracted, barely seeing what's before me. The landscape is monotone, and I let it blur in the corners of my vision. We ride as much as possible, to get the last leg of the journey as fast, as possible.

Like a blind dog, I walk straight into a trap. Again.

We're surrounded before I can even register that there are guns - a lot of guns - pointed at my face. My gloves creak weakly when I tighten the hold on the handles of the Reaver. Just a second ago this was an uninhabited, empty plain. The group literally appeared out of thin air.

I would fight, but what is there to do? Where could we run?

"You're trespassing."

The voice, low and growling, comes from behind us. I angle my head a bit - not too much - to hear better. Too many opponents, too many variables. I just need to wait it out, long enough to see an opening.

"Trespassers are dealt with swiftly here," the voice continues, clearly mocking.

What would they want? Bikes? Weapons? Blood?

"How exactly, pray tell?" The question rings out clearly from my left. Fighting the urge to snap my head I try to hide my rising panic.

"Shut up," I hiss at the woman through clenched teeth. What is this madness? Why would she say that?

"Who asked that," the male voice rasps.

My companion stupidly revealed her cards, and all I can do now is calculate. Women are a precious commodity. She is marked, and clearly, they know she has more value beyond the obvious.

If the guy closest to me looks away, I could try getting behind him and maybe shoot his pal with...

Before I finish my thought I see the woman taking off the wrapping from her palm. In a steady and confident gesture, she raises her arm, elegantly showing the tattoo to all of the people around us.

"No, but I insist. Do tell, what happens to trespassers here? And while you're at it, I'd like to know which of my brothers you report to."

What? Brothers?

I'm not the only one astonished by her words. The men and women murmur and look towards that mysterious figure behind our backs.

"Impossible!" he yells. But it's weak and comes out pathetic. Most of the guns are lowered, although still directed towards us.

The woman finally turns towards him, unimpeded by anyone. She makes a show out of looking the yeller up and down.

"Ah, weak chin, red hair, iron knuckles... You have to be Paddy Knuckles."

"You've heard about me," he says triumphantly, preening before his men.

"Sure I did," she replies, amiably at first glance.

I'm sure she smiled while saying that. I'm also pretty certain that smile did not bode well for poor Paddy. Her back is straightened in a way I saw once before. When she prepared to kill those scavengers. It's like glee radiating off of her frame. Still contained, but barely.

Not for the first time, I wonder if I am the mad one here, or if it's she.

"I heard that you're a crafty one."

"I sure am."

"That means I don't have to spell out the deal here, do I?"

Silence.

Some of the people sniggered after a few seconds. I would huff a chuckle too - if I wouldn't know how dangerous was the game she played. Was her leverage really big enough to humiliate the guy in front of his men?

"Fine, let's do it this way since you like to play dumb." She sighs, practically radiating exasperation. "I'm taking over. Any complaints may be referred to Master Proton."

The name changed the atmosphere around us as if the air instantly thickened.

"I'm in no mood to chit-chat any longer. You know who gets rewarded here, and for what. And who gets punished." She cocked her head at Paddy. Despite the goggles, he must have seen something in her eyes. "Time to do your job."

I don't know what was it in the end, her confidence or whatever that tattoo signified, but to my amazement, the group puts away their weapons.

She gives a few orders, and I watch everything around me, adrift in the situation without a clear definition of a role. What am I now? A guest? A hostage?

What is she?

Somebody gives me a pitcher of guzzoline. I let the Reaver drink it all, then wait for everyone to take their vehicles out of hiding.

The woman looks at me, finally, for the first time since this surreal ordeal started. That tattooed palm reaches up to her scarf and she slides it down. Takes a big gulp out of a canteen, then hands it to me.

When I reach for it she doesn't let go. Makes sure I look right at her. She mouths at me two words. They make the skin on my back crawl and tighten at the same time.

Trust me, is what my mind interprets from the movement of her lips.

And then she straightens back up. Orders the oblivious crowd to go.

They escort us in silence. As a sign of good will, they ride in a big spear-shaped formation towards our destination, letting me and the woman tag as the very last, along with Paddy.

No one notices that I'm not all there. I feel like my soul shattered and I leave a breadcrumb-like trail of it behind me, piece by piece, hollowing out the closer we get to the woman's home.

What awaits me there?

Maybe I just got dizzy from the fumes.

I slow down and stop the Reaver. This is madness. Why would I go wherever they're leading me?

The woman notices first. She gives Paddy some kind of gesture, and they keep on riding, slower and constantly looking back, but away and away.

I'm not getting calmer just yet, but this helps.

She's by me in an instant.

"You need food. And water. And guzzoline."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. You're my bodyguard." The goggles slide down with an impatient movement of her hand, along with the scarf. In the sharp sun, I can see that her hair has fiery strands. I never noticed that before.

Her eyebrows are matted with dust, lips chapped and dry. Still, she smiles and my stupid brain sees her for a split second like she was out in that cave, dripping with water. Enchanting, bewitching, alluring.

A fucking siren is what she is. Even when there's not a drop of moisture in sight.

"Let me take care of you."

I bite my lip, considering.

None of the questions running through my mind make it out of my mouth. Not even the one that stubbornly flashes in my head over and over again.

Like how you did in that cave? Like how you did last night?

I want to ask, but I'm too scared of her answer.

Shaking my head I frown and feign confidence that I've long lost.

"I only need pay for my work. Deal's a deal."

Her smile fades, but those eyes still carry some elusive charm. It's the colour. That must be it. The green.

"Deal's a deal," she echoes. "Come on, then."

And I go - stupid, stupid, stupid - like the idiot fucker that I am.

Where is Sprog, Angharad, Jesse? Why won't anybody talk me out of it?

Before I notice, we're there. To my defence, there's not much landscape-wise to see. A hill rising gently out of the desert. Rocky as anything besides it. But there is a gate, a massive maw of a gate, guarding an entrance to the belly of that hill.

The spearhead of the motorcade reaches it long before both of us, and as we arrive I can clearly see inside. There are people and bikes. Fire and water. Plants, growing freely, for all to touch.

She stops just before the entrance. There's a man there, weighted down with hardship and years. She leaves the bike on the road and sprints towards him.

I watch his joy and gauge her reaction. She's pleased but uneasy.

I wonder why, only until she turns towards me.

She waits for me to come.

Life is cheap in the wastelands.

But even if cheap - it still has some worth.

I just have to decide what mine is worth in this very moment.

The gate of the oasis beckons, as do the woman's lush green eyes.

Water. Shelter. Food.

The gravel creaks under my boots with each step. The finality of my decision thudding heavily with every nervous beat of my heart. Each step is measured and careful.

A misstep could have cost me my life.

oOo

 **THE END**


End file.
